Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,116

my ear. It’s my favorite love song and I’d only mentioned it in passing once, yet he’d took it upon himself to memorize most of the lyrics.

Resting his chin on my shoulder, he sings in a hushed and sleepy voice…

My love is like a red, red rose,

That’s newly sprung in June;

My love is like the melody,

That’s sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

‘Til all the seas gang dry.

‘Til all the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt with the sun,

And I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands of Life shall run...

Phwoar! It’s not Gaelic. But it’s pretty damn close!

“Maddy,” he adds huskily, “mo chridhe.”

Gasp. Mo chridhe is Scottish Gaelic for my heart.

I think I may have just died and gone to Heaven. Thrice.

The weekend rolls by and Mika, my MacGyver, spends all his time in the garage, tinkering with my Subaru. And I’ve noticed that he’s been putting gas in my car. It’s such a small gesture, yet I’m touched. Being taken care of for a change, well it sort of feels...nice.

Before I know it, it is officially my last day at the Lightning Speed Call Center. Mika kindly took the day off from his work to share this momentous occasion with me. All I need to do is go in, sign some papers, gather my things and leave.

“You ready?” His face glows with elation.

“What are you so excited about?” I ask, grinning myself.

“Well, I’ll be driving you to that place for the last time and you’ll finally get to see what I’ve done to your car. C’mon, let’s check it out.”

“Wait,” I say in a panic. “Have you seen my sunglasses?”

His mouth twitches. “It wasn’t my turn to watch them, babes.”

“I’m not amused.”

Taking charge, he puts one hand under my elbow, steers me out the door and leads me to my car.

“Check out your new muffler,” he gestures, pink with pride.

I stand frozen at the revelation. “Good Grief! Those suckers are gargantuous.”

This is not a regular muffler. No. This is a rice burner muffler slash exhaust system.

Meanwhile, Mika is looking exceedingly pleased with himself. “Doesn’t it look awesome?”

“Err, I guess.” I manage a tepid smile.

Seriously, I could have bolted on a sewer pipe in lieu of that monstrosity of a muffler, and it probably would have looked the same. Actually, it would have looked better.

“Thanks, but um, it’s not a stock muffler like I’d wanted.”

“Why buy stock when you can buy aftermarket accessories for a better price?” he states matter-of-factly.

I am laughing inside. Oh my God. Mika has ordered me a fart can muffler. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed, I drive a Subaru not a Honda Civic.”

“This is a Magnaflow,” he intones with a grandiose sweep of his arm.

As if I’d know the difference.

“This is not a ricer. Ricers are modified cars with all show and no go. This my dear, is a tuner. Magnaflow mufflers have a much deeper and richer sound. It’s a lot more muscular. Let’s take it for a spin. You’ll see,” he says reassuringly.

We slide into my car and snap on our seatbelts. As I rev up the engine, I hear the ferocious roar of my new muffler coming to life.

On impulse, I floor it and soon we’re flying down the freeway like fugitives in my souped up Subaru. Hahaha. I’m surprised to find myself enjoying every minute of it.

Blaarrrrrgggggghhhhhh blares my new muffler.

“Now all I need are some fat rims and lowering springs,” I shout over the loud racket.

“Really? I’ll order ‘em for you,” says Mika in all seriousness.

“No, don’t!” I say at once and jab him in the ribs. “I was just kidding. Mika, you’re my boyfriend, not my mechanic.”

His lips curve into a thin smile. “I can be both.”

We exit off the highway and my Subaru rolls to a stop at the lights. Abruptly, I hear an arrogant rev of an engine. Turning my head, I come face to face with a real ricer. The Honda Civic has a wing attached to the back.

I suppress a snort. The wing looks like a park bench.

Arrogantly, the young punk jerks his head at me and revs up his engine.

Mika nudges me. “I believe he wants to race you.”

I regard the driver with frank amusement.

VROOOM, VROOOM, VROOOOM! He taps his gas pedal.

The light turns green and the ricer screeches off, leaving skid marks all over the road. Languidly, I gently ease off the brakes; and